


A Widow's Toast

by siddals



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 16:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13415253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siddals/pseuds/siddals
Summary: The widow Howard tries to find her own way. (Caroline-centric.)





	A Widow's Toast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/gifts).



> For the prompt "waiting impatiently for something" on tumblr.

The mourning period seems to last an age.

She loathes wearing black. Caroline has never cared for fashion overmuch. To her, it is always yet another arena in which she fails and the London _haut ton_  has a particular love for reminding her of her failures. Too plain, and she is a poor country thing who does not understand London ways. Too extravagant and her dress serves as a reminder that she was born with no title and that her fortune stems from so vulgar a thing as banking. The colors, the ruffles, the width of the skirt, can all go so easily wrong.

Black should be a respite. This, at least, she cannot fail at. But instead, it feels like a cage, a constant cycle of forced grief, of sad words that she cannot mean. She wonders what Charlotte Wells says, when she is asked about George Howard and she is sure Charlotte must perform (in this, as in the other thing, as George was so fond of reminding her), far better than she does.

 

*

 

 _A few months_ , her uncle says, _at least and then we can see about f_ _inding you a new husband. It isn’t right, a woman of your age, a widow._ Often, Caroline bites her tongue to keep from screaming when her uncle speaks. He had convinced her to accept Sir George, insisted that she do what was best for the family, that a titled niece would make him happier than any other thing. Caroline does not say so, but she has decided her uncle will never convince her of anything again.

People pass in and out of the house, offering condolences she knows they do not mean. A harlot and an Irishman killing a baronet is a great affront but the death of George Howard in particular is no great source of sorrow for anyone. Caroline has never enjoyed large gatherings and now, she can all but feel the whispers, people hissing questions and tittering behind gloved hands.

 

*

 

She is enjoying a rare nighttime respite, a cup of steaming tea in her hand, when her maid alerts her to the presence of another guest. She is vexed, at first, wondering who on earth has the bad manners to call at this hour. Still, she rises once more and makes her appearance at the top of the stairs.

As it turns out, her guest is a person who few people expect to have manners at all.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs, wearing the same jeweled coat he had worn at the prison. Freedom does not appear to be suiting him. There’s a few days’ growth on his cheeks and jaw and bruise-like circles under his eyes. He shifts, appearing uneasy.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Lady Caroline,” Mr. Marney says, “But I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of other guests.”

“Don’t worry,” she says softly, “You haven’t disturbed me at all.”

Caroline is no fool. Haxby may have exaggerated what he saw, and there may be insufficient evidence to send either Mr. Marney or Miss Wells to the gallows, but she has never held any private illusions as to who her husband’s killers were. She owes them both a debt of gratitude, yet she still shivers a little alone in Mr. Marney’s presence. He may have freed her, but his motives can hardly have been altruistic. He wanted Charlotte Wells and her husband’s fortune ( _her_ fortune), which happen to be the same things nearly every man she knows wants. Yet Mr. Marney - Daniel - is hardly what she would have expected a murderer to be. The last time they had met, he had been more gentle than any supposed gentleman she has ever known.

“It pains me to ask more of you,” he says, “You’ve already done so much. But I  -”

“The debt I owe you,” she says, “is greater than what I can repay with a few words to a jailer.”

For a moment, he looks puzzled, as though he is unsure what she means.

"Come in," she says.

 

*

 

He has nothing, as it turns out. Charlotte has broken with him, Caroline gathers, asking delicately as she can. She has heard low words spoken between men about him. It is whispered there was recently a lady of quality who he served much as Charlotte served Howard, but any money he received her from must be gone. He regrets, he tells her over and over, to ask more from her, but if he can assist her in any way - 

He is easy to talk to, far easier than the lords and baronets and ladies who she is forced to converse with most of the time. He is a flatterer, she is clever enough to tell that, but she enjoys being flattered. Talking with him, she forgets quickly enough about the whispers and laughter during the time, forgets about George Howard, even forgets about Charlotte.

She speaks of finding him employment, but a part of her knows even then that is not why he came. His lips are strangely soft when he kisses her, though his stubble scratches against her skin.

"I'll need assurances," he says, breaking away.

"Of course," she says.

Is she no different from George, buying admiration she cannot find in earnest?

 

*

 

He puts his hands on her,  _killer's hands_ , she thinks, with a shiver, but she has no right to think it, not when she is so very grateful. She wonders, briefly, if that makes her a monster and then she thinks of nothing more, her mind slipping away in pleasure.

He talks much, like George, but the things he says are different. He tells her how beautiful she is, the sweetness of her touch, how good she feels. (Later, she wonders if Charlotte told him the things Howard had said about her, if he is turning them around by design. She cannot know, she supposes.)

 

*

 

The visits begin to die away. Nearly everything that can be said about George Howard has been said, and the great and good of London return to their usual business. When her uncle comes to visit, Caroline fears that he will see something different in her, that her sin will be visible upon her. She cannot bring herself to feel sorry.

 

*

 

Daniel returns, evening after evening, and she provides what he wishes. He tells her of his plans, that he once had notions of going to America. He hopes to purchase shares in a stallion from a man he has met at the tables. It is hardly reputable, she thinks, but he has given her a life once again. She hardly has the right to choose his.

 

*

 

"My great-grandfather was from Ireland," she tells Daniel, "He was a butcher from County Antrim."

"And how did he end up with such a great lady for a great-granddaughter?" he asks lazily, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She laughs, a little nervous.

"I'm hardly a great lady. But he began our family's bank. People have never looked on us well for it. Howard only married me because his coffers were so empty. He considered it a great shame."

He nods.

"I see."

"I only mean to say," she says, "There is no shame in new men and women, if they are prudent enough to find their way."

He almost frowns. She wonders if she has said something wrong.

 

*

 

She goes to her closet and runs her hand along the dresses she cannot wear. She takes one from where it hangs, pale yellow, and holds it up against herself in the mirror. The color seems dull to her now. Perhaps once she is out of mourning, she will have something new made. Deep blue, she thinks, like the open sea.


End file.
